King of Wall Street: a sexy, standalone, contemporary romance (20 page)

I had to stifle a giggle. “Have you never been here before?” I asked.

“No.” He frowned. “And now I know why.” He shook out his napkin and put it in his lap. “Everyone is so old. And everything is so very—” Before Max could finish his thought, the host approached with my father, who had arrived right on time.

Max stood up but my father greeted me first. “Harper, how are you?” he asked as I leaned forward, accepting his kiss on my cheek. No doubt the order of greeting was more about him trying to make sure Max felt as unimportant as possible, though I couldn’t imagine Max giving a shit. In fact, having seen him with his daughter, he probably thought it would be odd any other way.

“And you must be Max King,” my father said, stepping back and holding out his hand, which Max took.

He’d aged since I’d last seen him. He was still handsome, but his hair had more salt mixed with the pepper, and the dark shadows beneath his eyes were new. He was still handsome though, and I wondered whether it had been his looks that had seduced my mother and all those other women, or the money, or the power?

“So, Harper,” my father said, taking a menu from the waiter. “You’re working at King & Associates.”

I glanced across at Max, then back to my father. “Yes. For about three months now.”

He nodded and set his menu down but he didn’t reply. The silence felt awkward, but I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to know anything about him, so what was the point in asking a question? I was pretty sure if I said anything it would come out pointed and a little bitchy because that’s how I felt.

“We’re delighted to have her on board.” Max filled the silence.

My father raised his eyebrows. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

What, had he forgotten we didn’t speak? He occasionally tried to give me money through his lawyers, and I routinely refused. That was the extent of our relationship.

“She’s produced some of the best work I’ve ever seen from a junior researcher,” Max said, leaning back. It was clearly an exaggeration, given all the red pen he’d splashed across my Bangladesh report, but I suppose he thought it would soften up my father.

My father didn’t respond. I tried not to turn my head because I didn’t want it to be obvious I was looking at Max but wanted to see the expression on his face. Was he as awkward as I was?

“You’ve been after my work for years, Mr. King,” my father said, straightening his tie. “Is that why you hired my daughter?”

Max paused before he answered. “I was lucky to recruit someone so talented. She’s smart and works hard.” Max grinned. “I’m just grateful you weren’t successful in convincing her to work for JD Stanley,” he said as if he hadn’t just given him the biggest backhanded compliment in the history of backhanded compliments, and I wanted to smile at him, touch him, give him some indication I appreciated his support. “But to answer your question, I had no idea she was your daughter until after our telephone conversation. It’s not something she’s ever mentioned.”

“Really?” he asked.

“One thing you should know about me up front,” Max said as he leaned forward. “I don’t lie.”

“But you’ve wanted to work for JD Stanley for a long time,” my father said.

“You’re right. I have. As have the rest of my competitors.”

The waiter filled our water glasses and I pulled mine toward me, fiddling with the stem.

“You seem a little more tenacious than most. A little more willing to do whatever it takes,” my father commented.

“I’m glad you’ve noticed my tenacity,” Max replied. “It’s what’s helped make King & Associates the most successful geopolitical research firm in America.” My father looked at me and I stared into my lap. “That and the quality of work we do.”

Max clearly didn’t lack confidence and rightly so. He should be proud and in that moment I was proud to know him.

“Did you know Harper was working with us when you called me?” Max asked, turning the tables on my father. It was a question I was desperate for the answer to. In my experience, my father’s actions were almost always selfish, and if he called Max because he knew I was working at King & Associates, I didn’t know why.

“Will my answer change anything?” my father asked.

“Absolutely not. I know that when you see our work, understand what we can do for you, then the reason you called won’t matter anymore.”

My father put a fist to his mouth and coughed. “People do say you’re the best at what you do.” He paused. “Which was the reason I called. I didn’t know Harper worked for you until you called Margaret.”

I took a swig of my water. I was pretty sure my father was telling the truth. Why would he have known? He’d taken little to no interest in my life up until this point; why would that change now?

“Are you enjoying your work, Harper?” he asked.

I nodded. “I am. I chose to work at King & Associates because they’re the best. I didn’t apply anywhere else.” I felt Max’s gaze on me. I’d bordered on obsessed and had been completely single-minded in getting a job working with Max. I’d tailored my projects at business school to things I thought would catch King & Associates’ attention on my resume, and even visited the lobby of our building when I’d flown to New York to see Grace over the Fourth of July weekend last year. I’d always known King & Associates was where I was meant to be.

“You know that you can do anything you like with your trust fund now you’re twenty-five. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” my father said, stroking down the front of his tie.

Was he really talking about my trust fund in front of my boss? The trust fund I didn’t want anything to do with? Was he deliberately trying to embarrass me? Make Max feel awkward? I’d thought we’d come here to talk about business.

“I want to work at King & Associates. I worked hard for my opportunity. And I don’t need your money.” Was it so difficult for him to believe I was good enough, that I would want this? This lunch should be about business and beginning to prove to my father I didn’t need a trust fund. “May I ask why you’re thinking about outsourcing some of your research at this point? Has something changed at your end?” I asked.

My eyes flickered to Max, who was nodding, encouraging my question and I allowed myself to relax a little bit.

My father sighed. “Well, I think it’s good to keep the people who work for you on their toes, and I’ve been following what you do and I thought I’d like to hear a little more about it.”

I kept quiet for most of the rest of lunch, concentrating on the answers my father gave to Max’s questions, committing them to memory. I tried to forget the man sitting kitty-corner to me was genetically linked to me and focused on him as a client.

It was the first time I’d seen Max with a client. And it was easy to understand why he was so successful. He had an easy charm that had my father revealing things I wasn’t sure he’d planned to. And Max did it all without giving anything of himself. He let my father dominate the conversation in terms of number of words spoken, but the way Max nudged him toward certain topics meant Max was the one pulling the strings.

He was as brilliant as they said he was.

I’d known he was smart, but I hadn’t expected the rest of it—the charisma, the control. It was like watching a wizard at work, casting spells over people so they’d tell him their secrets.

“And of course Harper will work on the presentation,” Max said, catching my eye as I stared at him. I glanced back at my father, giving him a tight smile.

“She will?” he asked, sounding surprised. “With so little experience?”

Great. Another put-down in front of my boss. I wondered if he knew he didn’t have to verbalize every thought he had.

The worst part of it all was I was pretty sure he hadn’t said it to try to put me down. I think he just had so little regard for my feelings it didn’t occur to him he was being hurtful.

“Yes sir. I want to put my best people on it,” Max said.

“Well, if you’re as good as you say you are, I should just trust your judgment,” my father replied and smiled tightly.

Memories of waiting for his car to pull up on my birthday or that call at Christmas kept interrupting my concentration. The expensive gift that would sometimes follow to apologize for not making it would trick me into liking him again until the next time he disappointed me. The tight knot that sat inside my stomach when my mother apologized for his absence at dance class or school plays nudged at my belly. The humiliation I’d felt when I realized my youngest half brother had been offered a job at JD Stanley straight after graduation heated my skin.

I thought I’d feel nothing if we came to lunch after all the time that had passed, that we could be all business.

But his abandonment was too painful to forget.

I shouldn’t have come today. It was like slicing open an old scar. He didn’t deserve my time or attention. He didn’t deserve me to bleed for him. Not anymore.

* * * * *

Standing in my kitchen, I poured Patron into the Golden Gate Bridge shot glass I’d placed on the counter and set the bottle beside it. Tequila would make today ebb away and help me sleep.

Max had gone on to another Midtown meeting after lunch, leaving me to go back to Wall Street on my own. I’d been grateful for the space, the time to compose myself before getting back to the office. I’d been unproductive for the rest of the afternoon, going through the motions, watching the clock, willing it to speed up. I left as soon as I could so I could come home and drink.

And so tequila. Booze would lift me out of my sense of loss, of abandonment, of shame at him still having the power to wound me.

As I reached for the glass, there was a knock at my door. It could be Grace, but it was unlikely because she would have called to make sure I was in. No, it would be Max.

The thought of Max’s hard body over mine, pushing into me, filling me with nothing but him, sounded better than tequila.

I opened the door wide, inviting him in. He stepped over the threshold and I let the door slam shut.

“Hi. I just wanted to check—”

“Do you want a shot?” I asked.

He squinted at me and shook his head and I turned and headed back into the kitchen.

I picked up the full glass and before I could lift it to my lips, Max grabbed it out of my hand.

I expected him to throw back the shot, but instead he slung the glass and its contents into the sink. The sound of splintering glass hitting metal echoed into the silence between us.

Pretending he hadn’t just done that, I reached into the cabinet and pulled out a shot glass featuring the space needle. I filled it with tequila, then gripped the glass so Max couldn’t take it from me. He plucked it from my hand as though it was nothing. As he went to throw it into the sink, I said, “Don’t break that one. I like it.”

“Liquor won’t help,” he said, pouring it into the sink and setting the glass down. He grabbed the bottle and screwed on the cap.

I folded my arms. “You’re so boring.” I sounded like a teenager, but he was used to that.

He put the bottle on top of my refrigerator and stepped toward me. “I know.” He lifted my chin and looked at me. “How much have you had to drink?”

I shrugged, unwilling to tell him he’d put a stop to my fun before it started.

“Tell me, Harper.” He dragged his thumb along my jaw, rough and intimate. My body relaxed as if
he
were tequila, and I closed my eyes in a long blink.

I uncrossed my arms. “Nothing,”

He nodded and pulled me into a hug, wrapping his long arms around me, enveloping me in the scent I now associated with sex and comfort and peace. I let him hold me, pressing my face against his chest and tightening my arms around his waist.

“I’m not psychic, but I think that maybe today brought some issues to the surface for you.” He squeezed me a little bit tighter when I didn’t answer. “You want to talk about it rather than drink them away?”

“Definitely not,” I replied. Him just being here, holding me, made everything feel so much better. “And I’m sorry about the shoes. They’re beautiful and I love them. Sometimes I don’t accept gifts well.”

He chuckled. “Can I ask why?”

I shrugged and he didn’t ask me anything else.

We stood in my kitchen for what seemed like hours, just holding each other until I managed to say, “I’m okay.” His chest muffled my words.

He sighed, his ribcage rising and lowering against my breasts. “I should go,” he said, but didn’t release me.

“Don’t,” I whispered.

“I don’t want to.” He sounded tired. As if by hugging him, I’d sapped him of his energy. “And that’s why I should. We said no more trips to Vegas.”

We had, and it had been the right thing to do. The problem was the more time I spent with him, the more I wanted.

“Then let’s go somewhere else,” I said, smoothing my hands up his back, shifting my hips just a fraction.

“Harper,” he whispered.

“Aruba,” I suggested. “Or Paris.”

He dipped his head and kissed my neck. My knees weakened in relief. It was what I’d been waiting for since he arrived, since lunch, since the last time he’d touched me.